"
"Yes, that's it. They're--why, they're--Oh, poor dear, there,
there, there! It _sha'n't_ have so much intellekchool discussion,
_shall_ it!... I think you're a very nice person, and I'll tell you
what we'll do. We'll have a small fire, shall we? In the fireplace."
"Yes!"
She pulled the old-fashioned bell-cord, and the old-fashioned
North Country landlady came--tall, thin, parchment-faced,
musty-looking as though she had been dressed up in Victorian
garments in 1880 and left to stand in an unaired parlor ever since.
She glowered silent disapproval at the presence of Mr. Wrenn in
Istra's room, but sent a slavey to make the fire--"saxpence uxtry."
Mr. Wrenn felt guilty till the coming of the slavey, a perfect
Christmas-story-book slavey, a small and merry lump of soot, who
sang out, "Chilly t'-night, ayn't it?" and made a fire that was
soon singing "Chilly t'-night," like the slavey.
Istra sat on the floor before the fire, Turk-wise, her quick
delicate fingers drumming excitedly on her knees.
"Come sit by me.
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